by Jay Manuel
Sasha grabbed the device to look up close. “She’s just a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Mason. And drag doesn’t make a lady, ain’t that true, Miss Thing?”
“She sure don’t! I snapped her from behind at judging. It’s my get outta jail free card, if I need it.”
Mason leaned in to get a better look.
“See. I can easily leak a few of these babies and we could watch the media eat her alive.” Miss Thing kicked off one of his Moroccan slides and threw his giant bare foot on the table. “And what’s real sad? Her dress was uglier than both my bunions.”
The three judges roared with laughter.
“Yo, Missy,” Sasha coughed. “You have an Instagram DM.” She was holding Miss Thing’s iPhone and read the alert notification preview out loud. “I’m still waiting for that pic you promised me! Papa is HORNY and ready to get off.”
Mason pointed a ridiculing finger at Miss Thing. “Do you know what you are possibly risking?”
“You can’t get an STD from sharing photos, Mason. You’re so square.” The model coach snatched his phone, rolled his eyes and unlocked it, flipping over to Instagram.
“No. What if someone posts naked photos of you online? The network will not stand behind you. And I am pretty sure you will be hard pressed to find another gig that is as accepting of your kind.”
“My kind? Kind of what, you conceited closet case.”
“I am just saying; you should be careful. You are no tech genius.”
“Whatever, Hughes junior. I may not be good with this whole Instagram thing, but leave me to handle my shit.” Miss Thing gathered his belongings, stood up and stared Mason down. “Now, before I go beat this face, I’m gonna go beat this meat and snap the ooooooonly photo that’s gonna make my man blow his load.”
Turning his back on his disgusted colleagues, Miss Thing sashayed across the catering area and disappeared into his double-banger trailer, slamming the door.
Sasha slurped the last of her concoction and said, “Well, I hope he uses a filter ‘cause those nuts gotta be older than black thread.”
* * *
It was just past noon and the blistering hot sun beat down on Pablo, who stood in awkward silence next to Keisha on the Intrepid’s main deck. This was the first time they’d seen each other since Pablo was announced as EP. She was clearly avoiding him and planned to ice him out. Pablo no longer wanted to fight with her, though. They would, as she’d once told him, “play, on camera, the way the audience expects us to play.” She wanted to ignore him? Fine. But he now had a new friend. And she wouldn’t like who it was.
The scope of production was huge and several crew members ran around locking things down across the massive expanse. Located at Pier 86, off 46th Street in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of Manhattan’s Westside, the installation showcased the aircraft carrier USS Intrepid, the cruise missile submarine USS Growler, a Concorde SST and the infamous Space Shuttle Enterprise. Its opening in 1982 had been the success of New York developers Zachary and Larry Fisher and philanthropist Michel Stern, who’d saved the USS Intrepid from being destroyed in 1978. The Intrepid became a National Historic Landmark in 1986 and remains one of the hot tourist spots to hit when visiting the city of dreams.
Being escorted by a PA, Miss Thing runway walked and landed on his taped X mark next to Pablo. “Why are we doing this welcome here? It’s hotter than hell.”
“We’re gonna surprise the girls with an impromptu fashion show.” Pablo burst with excitement. “They’re gonna runway walk down the deck. It’ll be chic.”
“Well, can we get a scrim or somethin’? Keisha looks like a drag queen who just walked outta da club at daybreak.”
“You know what, bitch, don’t try me!” Keisha barked, without making eye contact with either of her colleagues.
“A scrim is flying in. I already spoke to Bill,” Pablo said. “You’ll look pretty, don’t worry.”
“Oh, I’m snatched. It’s ya good girlfriend you should be worrying about.”
Being an executive producer had its privileges. Pablo wore the concealed IFB earpiece that Rachel and Joe needed him to wear. His work with Celebrity-Buzz TV, the last couple of months, had given him the essential practice that taught Pablo to speak on camera, while listening to his producers—at the same time. He could easily hear the conversation between the Model Muse team sitting across the deck, hidden inside an open-ended tent. Joe, Rachel, Luciana and De La Renta had been watching everything on a monitor and were all listening on their individual radio headsets. Pablo had requested the IFB mic be left on—so he could hear everything. His therapist was still working with him on his control freak issues.
“Miss Thing’s right,” Luciana said. “You guys need to back off Keisha. She’s a LOT to look at in this light.”
“She wanted lashes with rhinestones, and I just do whatever she tells me to,” De La Renta piped in. “She likes it, I love it.”
“Fucking soften her a bit,” Joe yelled, nearly blowing out Pablo’s eardrum. “I can’t shoot her looking like this.”
“I’ll tell you what you can soften, that nasty little man attitude of yours.”
Pablo snickered to himself listening to his witty friend’s clapback, as a large scrim was being placed over their heads. Keisha shot him an evil glance. She had no idea what he was giggling about. She was still refusing to wear the concealed earpiece.
“You feel better with this?” Pablo asked Keisha, kindly.
The Supermodel ignored him all together and leaned over, smiling at Miss Thing. “Tell him I look good in any light.”
“Did you look at yourself, Mary? Believe me, this is a vast improvement.”
Keisha ignored the quip. However, Pablo had more to say. “So, is this what we’re doing now?”
“Oh, the gloves are off. This is gonna be good,” Luciana cracked. “Anyone wanna place a bet on the last bitch standing?”
“Which bitch?” De La Renta said, “There’s a lotta bitches around here, okaaaay.”
Pablo could hear several crew members now snickering, but Joe Vong’s voice raised over the ruckus. “Everyone shut up. She’s gonna hear you.”
Rachel popped her head out of the tent and pulled out her bullhorn, having direct line of sight with the judges. “Ok, since everyone’s roasting out here, we’re gonna skip the pre-roll and do this in one take with the girls.” Her voice echoed.
“Ready on set,” the 2nd AD yelled.
“Ready.”
“Copy that,” Bill yelled. “Girls are walking in three, two, one.”
“Wait. What am I saying again?” Miss Thing stammered to Pablo.
“I’ll lead you. Just give us some funny lines.”
“Don’t I always?”
The two giggled at each other and at the emerging new model hopefuls tromping onto the deck wearing high-heels, tank tops and tiny cutoff shorts, dragging wheeled carry-on luggage and neck pillows.
“Well, hellooooo ladies. Or should I say, ladies of the night.” Pablo took center stage; he was loving the moment. “I dunno, Miss Thing, do these girls look like a group of young models to you?”
“Chiiiiiiile, pale girl in the front, with the nonexistent purple shorts. I ain’t no gynecologist, so I don’t need to see your cervix.” A group of girls in the back snickered at the inappropriate jab.
“Welcome, everyone, to Model Muse, season seven,” Pablo chimed in. “We’ve got amazing challenges planned for you, AND big news. The winner of this season is gonna be personally managed by our very own matriarch, Keisha Kash.”
“Did I fucking miss something?” Joe hissed.
“Oh no. You’re just getting schooled in gay shade,” De La Renta shot back. “Pablo’s setting Mother up.”
Keisha grinned and placed her arms lovingly around Pablo. “That’s right. This season I’ve decided to personally manage the winner with my handsome BFF.” She leaned clo
ser to Pablo, making annoying kissy sounds near his cheek. “Oh, you’re sweating through your makeup, Boo.” Patting the sweat off Pablo’s brow, she smeared his foundation, making it look uneven. “This year, I’ll take one of you under my wing and lift you to new heights—”
“Soooo, we’re not wasting any time today,” Pablo interrupted, stepping all over Keisha’s audio. “You’ll be doing a runway challenge right here on the Intrepid, walking in flight suits.” The models looked confused. “Now, head below deck where you’ll find your wardrobe to change in to. We’ll see you back here, sharp, at thirteen hundred.”
“That’s in ten minutes, you model maggots. Move,” Miss Thing yelled, sounding like a drill sergeant.
It was like the bridge and tunnel crowd coming into the city on a Saturday night; the near naked girls squealed and awkwardly stumbled off in their heels.
“That’s a cut.” Rachel said on her bullhorn, “Judges stay in place so we can get a few closeups.” She then whispered, “Can you PLEASE go in and soften her?”
“I just do hair and makeup,” De La Renta barked. “This right here is a comb, not a magic wand.”
Pablo could now see his new BFF, De La Renta, walking across the deck reaching into his pocket and pulling out his iPhone midway across. He swiped up on the screen and mouthed the words, “what the fuck.” Arriving at their position, he glared at Miss Thing.
“Really girl? We doin’ dick pics on Instagram now? Who are you? Anthony Weiner?”
Pablo grabbed De La Renta’s phone and looked at the screen. “Isn’t this the same dick pic you sent me last season?”
“Oh, y’all sharing dick pics now?” De La Renta snatched his iPhone back. “That’s my exit cue.”
“Wait, what?” Miss Thing grabbed Pablo’s arm with his over-sized hand. “I swear to God, Pablo, I didn’t mean to do this.”
Pablo knew the network took their morality clause very seriously. Nude photos of talent going public was enough to get the model coach fired of his own accord. Another problem he would have to fix.
“Bye-bye, Miss Thing.” Keisha grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “Looks like we’ll be casting a new judge this season too.” The smug Supermodel gave a gentle wave of her delicate hand.
Pablo shifted his gaze towards the horizon. An ethereal vision appeared to float amongst the rippling heat vapors that bounced off the steel warship. He focused his eyes and could now see his knight in shining, new armor.
“What you all really need to be casting for around here, is a new Host,” her voice bellowed from the far side of the Intrepid deck.
Instinctively, Keisha snapped her neck back around to see Brenda Paris looking radiant, outfitted in a Chanel power suit.
“Mama! You’re out?”
“That’s right, Miss Kiki. I’m baaaaack!”
27
TRUTH BE TOLD
BRENDA PARIS HAD become the woman you never wanted to cross or dupe. And as the famous saying goes, Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me! Brenda had learned all too well from her cheating ex-husband—and now her own daughter—ALWAYS have a plan B!
The air conditioning was roaring at full blast attempting to cool down Keisha’s black, stretched Escalade parked on the access road out front of the Intrepid Museum. Comfortably seated inside, and leaning back in her daughter’s luxury ride, Brenda Paris felt like the ultimate feminist icon and her hero, Doris Payne, who’d pulled off some of the greatest jewelry heists in history by pretending to be affluent women. When Keisha had been 13 years old, and they were practically starving, Brenda had decided to do the unthinkable to save her kids, just like Doris had in trying to save her own mother.
Unfortunately, Doris had landed behind bars just like Brenda. Brenda had only planned on robbing the unguarded morgue safe, where she worked overnight shifts, once. It was a once in a lifetime chance to score a massive haul that could set her family straight. Brenda’s kids depended on her and she’d been in desperate need of cash. After all, she justified, dead people didn’t need jewels. Thank goodness, she hadn’t pulled off the heist alone. And with her accomplice making off with the loot, the blood vial that took her years to procure had become the key to her release and salvation. Without question, it linked her accomplice to the crime scene.
The sky had been grey and threatening a storm the day Brenda heard the lock to her cell click open. It was a few hours before dinner was to be served and she needed one last favor.
“I can’t keep doin’ you favors, Brenda,” the muscular female prison guard had said, “but my niece won’t stop beggin’ me for that Model Muse zip-up that Keisha’s wearing all over Instagram.”
Brenda had one left, with her daughter’s signature across the back to boot, so she’d handed it off in exchange for the folded shred of paper that had the 911 # 917-555-8691 written on it. When she’d gotten the note, Brenda had no clue that the phone number on that paper was her lifeline and was going to change her life. Now, today, she was about to change Keisha’s. Brenda had come up with a new plan B, and his name was Pablo.
Gazing with delight, she watched her daughter slip into the Escalade opposite her.
“Oh no, Joe,” Keisha called out. Joe Vong was trying to skulk past. “You’re back here with me.”
Joe reluctantly stepped into the Supermodel’s ride, sitting next to Keisha, and closed the door. Brenda was seated directly across from the guilty duo, with her back to the driver. Banging on the partition she said, “Put the window up.”
Brenda meant business.
Keisha’s eyes widened, her breathing became shallow and nervous. “So, wow. You look great. How did you—”
“Let’s just cut the shit! Okay, Miss Kiki?”
The pimped-out Escalade slowly pulled away from the curb and merged into the southbound West Side Highway traffic. Both Keisha and Joe looked terrified to speak.
“You think you’re the only ones with high-powered friends? I’ve got eyes and ears all over your world,” Brenda snapped.
Keisha tried to jump in. “I’m assuming you’ve been talking to—”
“Mama always figures out a plan B, Baby. Didn’t think I needed one, till I found out you were tryin’ to keep my ass in jail. Don’t forget, every trick you got you learned from me.”
“Pablo’s not to be trusted…”
“Pablo’s innovative methods of research are what have me sitting here today,” Brenda fired back. “My new buddy uncovered a simple truth. The diamond engagement ring I was accused of stealing was never found or cut down into pieces.”
“So?”
“So, that meant it could only be in one place, and I no longer needed the blood vial that you DESTROYED.” Brenda felt like she was possessed by a demon now. Her voice rumbled and grated her vocal cords.
“Blood vial? Diamond ring? What are you guys talkin’ about?” Joe asked sheepishly.
Brenda shifted her gaze, to where Vong was huddled, and slowly transformed her scowl into a big disingenuous Hollywood smile. “And look at you. Big, little man on campus. You step in a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses.”
With strikingly different alert tones, both Keisha and Joe’s cell phones started sounding off in dissonant song.
Brenda continued scathing Joe, wagging her finger in his face. “How do you go from some low-rent COPS knockoff shit show, arrest me on camera for your entertainment, to running my baby girl’s hit TV empire?”
“Well, I…”
“Will you both just put that shit on silent,” she screamed. Frustrated with the incessant ringing, Brenda became distracted.
“Ms. Paris. I literally have different execs trying to call—”
“Oh, nooooow it’s Ms. Paris? I see Keisha’s pint-sized dog training has you good in line.”
“Mama hold on for a moment.” Keisha flipped the intercom switch next to her shoulder. “Can you activate the Wi-Fi
so we can stream something on the screen back here? Quickly.”
Brenda’s bemused expression didn’t distract Keisha as she flipped on the TV that stretched between them. Turning to channel 51, a live, breaking news story was already in progress. Keisha turned up the volume.
“You heard it here first, on Celebrity-Buzz TV,” the show’s host said. “Things are really heating up over on Model Muse and not on-screen with the contestants. It appears the real show is behind the scenes.”
“Here we go.” Brenda shifted her position to see the screen a little better.
“By now, you’ve all seen this viral photo of Tyreeq Levern Jackson, known as Miss Thing….”
“Tyreeq?” Brenda and Joe shrieked in unison. The screen then swiped to a blurred photo of an unidentified man’s pubic region and his hand flipping the bird.
“We’ve confirmed with Pablo Michaels, the show’s new executive producer, and our very own fashion correspondent, that the he/she judge was a victim of an elaborate hack.”
“At least he’s doing his job,” Joe muttered to Keisha.
“Shhh.”
“We’ve also obtained shocking new images of Sasha Berenson, the self-proclaimed original Supermodel of the world, revealing she’s evolved into this.” The screen swiped to an unflattering paparazzi photo of Sasha in Silvercup’s catering area. “The world’s first Cat-lady Supermodel.”
Glancing down at her iPhone, now buzzing on vibrate, Keisha squirmed in her seat looking very uncomfortable.
“Bribery allegations have also been brought forward involving Andy Levenkron, Keisha Kash’s very own celebrity business manager. He’s being accused of paying off a former Model Muse contestant, who he allegedly had sex with.”
“He’s so, fucking, fired,” Keisha uttered with her jaw clenched.
“Aw, Baby! Things aren’t lookin’ so good for you,” Brenda giggled. She began wheezing and coughing.
“Shhhh,” Keisha snapped.
Brenda glared at her daughter.
